


Painted Skin

by MotherMaple



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty knows what she wants, Brazen Flirting, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Piercings, Secretary Jughead, Spoiler: she wants Jughead, Tattoo Artist Betty, The opposite of a slow burn, author jughead, nobody gets pregnant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherMaple/pseuds/MotherMaple
Summary: She tucked her portfolio under her arm and pulled open the front door of the design office, stepping smartly over the threshold and stopping short in the doorway, almost letting the door shut on her as she locked eyes with the man sitting behind the reception desk.Betty Cooper, artist extraordinaire, painter of human canvases, knew beauty when she saw it. And beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it.This man was breathtaking.What an interesting twist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juggydunes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggydunes/gifts).



“No, Ma’am, I’m sorry. Miss Jones doesn’t have any available appointments until the middle of next month. I understand that, but I’m afraid she’s very busy just now. Yes, I’m quite sure. I’ll be happy to put you on the waiting list if you like. Certainly. Yes, please do. Uh huh. Uh huh. Thank you, you as well. Good morning.”

 

Placing the receiver back in the cradle, Jughead leaned back in the classic Eames chair and pressed the heels of his hands wearily to his eyes. Clients were a necessary part of the business, but the kid gloves with which it was necessary to handle some of them didn’t fit him all that well. 

 

But, anything for family. 

 

_Some_ family. 

 

One member of his family. 

 

The phone rang again and he sighed, tucking the receiver into his shoulder and flipping open the vintage-style leather appointment book. 

 

(His sister was nothing if not committed to her aesthetic.)

 

“Miss Jones’ office, this is Jack speaking. How may I help you?” It had early been decided that Jughead was not a suitable name for the secretary of a high-end design office, and Forsythe was not a suitable name for anyone. Since Jack was the most common mondegreen of Jughead - especially on the phone -  that was how Jellybean had christened him on his first day on the job. 

 

(As if Jellybean was a better name.) 

 

“Yes, Mrs Scott. I have you in for a consultation with Miss Jones at three o’clock this afternoon. Parking is available, yes. Certainly. Until three o’clock then. Good-bye.”

 

He pulled the file for the eleven o’clock client (master bedroom with ensuite and dressing room. Versailles meets Hermitage, no budget) and rapped lightly on Jellybean’s office door before letting himself in. Jellybean was perched in a custom leather chair behind a massive teak desk; her bespoke suit impeccably tailored to her small frame, red bottoms plopped unceremoniously on the blotter, black hair shaped in a shiny and perfectly straight bob. 

 

She looked every inch the successful professional, but Jughead knew that the silk lining of her jacket was printed with tiny unicorn skulls, and there was a pattern of diamonds shaved into the back of her head under that neat bob.

 

Jellybean Jones - punk rock aficionado by night, interior designer to the elite by day. He was very proud. 

 

“Carver file, Miss Jones,” he said, schooling his face into an appropriately respectful expression that he knew she’d see right through, and tossing the folder on her desk. 

 

“Thank you, Jack,” she said coolly, not looking up from the sketchbook perched on her knee. “That will be all.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she concentrated furiously on her drawing, bowing her head until all he could see of her face were her nose and eyelashes - and definitely not the beginnings of her smile.

 

“Like Hell it will.” Grinning, he flopped down on the client chair and dropped his own feet on the desk, his boots dwarfing her tiny stilettos. “I want to hear how your date went.”

 

Finally glancing up, she glared pointedly at his feet and then rolled her eyes in defeat. “You were raised in a barn, Jug.” 

 

“Right next door to you, sis. So? Do I have to break any kneecaps?”

 

She snorted derisively, the indelicate noise completely at odds with the elegance of her office and of her person. “Please. You can’t even kill a spider and you expect me to believe that you’d be a threat to my date?”

 

“If a spider hurt you, I’d squash it without question. Until then, live and let live.” He reached over the desk and grabbed her mug of coffee, staring her down while he swallowed half of it. “Quit stalling. How’d it go with Tinderfella?”

 

“You’ve really go to stop calling them that, and I did  _ not _ meet him on Tinder.”

 

“Whatever. Was he a dick? You weren’t your usual, perky self this morning.”

 

Jellybean sighed and leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers behind her head. “No,” she said, exhaling heavily. “Just boring. More interested in how much he can bench than anything I might have had to say.” She snatched her coffee back, ostentatiously wiping the rim of the mug with a pristine linen handkerchief. “I think I’m going to step out of the dating pool for a while.”

 

“There are decent guys out there, Beanie. One of them will wander in, one of these days.”

 

“And until then, I’m going to take over the world, one IDA at a time,” she said smugly, scanning the row of trophies subtly displayed in a dark wood built-in.

 

“Your modesty is an inspiration to us all, Miss Jones.” Jughead pushed himself to his feet slowly and turned to the door. “Enjoy Mrs Carver. I can’t wait to see what you do with all the gilt she wants.”

 

Laughing at the rude hand gesture she sent his way, he settled himself back behind his own desk, hoping for a few minutes to go over a list of not-so-subtle suggestions from his editor before some needy client called or barged in demanding attention, a double-decaf-mocha-soy-latte-with-whip, and an immediate site visit from Miss Jones, in that order. 

 

Ten minutes of micro-edits later, and one glaring plot hole eliminated, the heavy oak front door opened and Mrs Carver, accompanied by Scarlett O’Hara, her Pomeranian, swept in. Automatically, Jughead shoved his laptop out of sight and stood, coming around the desk. 

 

“Good morning, Mrs Carver,” he said, helping her off with her (was that real fur?) floor-length coat. “I hope you’re well.”

 

“Thank you, John. Take Scarlett for me, will you? I couldn’t leave the poor thing in the car in this weather, but you know how she hates to be cooped up in the office. A walk around the block would do her the world of good, don’t you think?”

 

Vaguely, he wondered if Mrs Carver could fit into his newest novel at all. Of course, no one would believe a character like that, and reviewers do not like unrealistic characters. “Certainly, Ma’am. A little constitutional would do us both good.” Showing Mrs Carver into Jellybean’s office, he forwarded the office phone to his mobile and escorted the overdressed Scarlett onto the sunlit street. 

 

Anything for family.

 

“One day you’ll be able to tell your grandkids that a best-selling author cleaned up after you,” he said wryly as the little dog stopped at a likely-looking patch of grass. “Although I suppose you’re used to rubbing paws with much more important people than me. You’d probably make me use the servants’ entrance, wouldn’t you?”

 

He kept up a string of idle chatter with the little dog, who was frankly a better conversationalist than her mistress, until they’d completed a slow loop of the block. Three doors down from Jellybean’s classy office facade was a large-windowed storefront that housed a completely different type of business, although equally artistic its own way. 

 

Painted Skin had caused quite a stir when the owner had cut the proverbial red ribbon six months earlier. On a street of discrete legal experts, architecture firms, a private physiotherapist and three different artisan food shops, a tattoo artist had caused more than a little grumbling amongst the elite proprietors and their snooty clientele. 

 

Personally, Jughead didn’t see the problem. It wasn’t as though the place was decked out in neon lights and graffiti-style signage like some ink shops. In fact, it blended in beautifully with the rest of the businesses. Through the window, he could see that the reception area was done in tasteful dark wood with expensive-looking couches and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. An array of leafy green houseplants dotted the carved side tables, and the only proof that the place was anything other than a wealthy gentleman’s library was the small calligraphed sign in the window, which read _ ‘Tattoo appointments by invitation only. Those seeking consultations may enquire within.’ _

 

Jughead had his share of ink, and he knew that it was a rare artist who could afford to put a sign like that up. He’d never personally met the owner, or seen any staff going in or out of the shop, but he did know that her name was Elizabeth ( Elizabeth Ink, professionally), that her art was in high demand, and that she’d been featured more than once in Inked Magazine. Some people might have called him a fan. 

 

And, as far as he was concerned, she added a little colour to a decidedly beige neighbourhood. 

 

Mrs Carver was chatting with Jellybean in the waiting room when Jughead and Scarlett got back, and he gladly handed over the crystal-encrusted leash. “Safe and sound, Mrs Carver.”

 

“Thank you, James,” she said, glancing pointedly at her coat, hanging on the antique ebony rack. He moved to help her into it, then opened the door for her at Jellybean’s subtle hand-gesture. Mrs Carver nodded condescendingly and swept out the door with a careless, “I’ll leave word at the gate, Miss Jones. Until Friday.”

 

Jughead closed the door quietly after her and turned to Jellybean with his lips pursed and his eyebrows raised. “I don’t believe the job description mentioned dog walking, Miss Jones. It certainly didn’t mention canine hygiene.”

 

“Well just be glad you missed the discourse on women with tattoos.” Jellybean turned on her heel and stalked back to her office, tossing the Carver file on Jughead’s desk as she passed. “Madame really didn’t appreciate having to park in Miss Cooper’s vicinity.”

 

“Miss Cooper?” Jughead followed her into the office and sat down across from her, this time keeping his feet on the floor. 

 

“The tattoo artist on the corner. Apparently, it’s a disgrace to the neighbourhood, a blight on the community, a blatant assault on femininity. Like black ink on a white wedding dress, I believe the old bat said.”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t start taking off your clothes.” JB had at least half a dozen tattoos that he knew of, and probably several that he’d rather not see.

 

Jellybean fixed him with a severely unamused look and pulled a bottle of sparkling water out of the mini-fridge behind her desk. “No, Jughead, I did not.” She poured a measure of water into a glass and sat back in her chair, slouching slightly in the oversized seat. “The customer is always right, remember? That’s why you just walked a dandelion on legs.”

 

“Wearing a Burberry coat, by the way.” He leaned over to take the half-full bottle from her and toasted her silently. “I’d never live it down if anyone got a picture of that.”

 

“The dog was in Burberry? God, I can see the headlines now. ‘Jughead Jones spotted strolling with stylish companion on Fourth Street.’”  She tossed back the rest of her water and slid the empty glass across the table. “Do you mind? I have to get ready for my next appointment.”

 

Standing, he sent her a teasing salute and picked up the glass. “All in a day’s work.”

 

“I appreciate it, Jughead,” she said quietly, just before he got to the door. “Really.”

 

“I know.”   
  
  
  


 

Four thousand words and two extremely demanding clients later, Jughead gratefully locked the front door of the office and abandoned Jellybean to her evening of prep work. The autumn nights were getting cooler, but the leaves on the trees had yet to turn and it was still just this side of warm enough that he could take his bike instead of the obnoxiously green pick up truck that he’d coddled well past the one-hundred thousand mark. 

 

He slipped out the back door into the alleyway behind the row of businesses; a darker, grittier side of the neighbourhood that the shop owners liked to ignore and the clients liked to complain about. It was still remarkably upscale for a back street, but women who wear floor-length fur coats when it’s 50 degrees out never seem to be happy unless they have something to be upset about.

 

Parked next to Jellybean’s bright red Fiat (her namesake car, Jughead called it. _ “It looks like a jellybean, Jellybean. You can’t deny it.”)  _ was his bike, meticulously maintained and customized right down to the tiny chrome crown on the gas tank. 

 

With half a million copies sold in his first month, he’d figured he’d earned a treat.

 

As he straddled the Harley and pulled on his helmet, a flash of colour in the dim alley caught his eye. A blonde woman in a brilliant sapphire-coloured dressing gown leaned over the railing of a fire escape a few units down, a glass of something amber held haphazardly in one hand, a boxy cordless phone clenched tightly in the other. Jughead was too far away to see her face clearly, but there was no mistaking her irritated posture, or the fleeting moment in which she seriously contemplated throwing the phone across the lane.

 

_ My sympathies _ , he thought wryly, fastening his helmet and kickstarting the bike.  _ Been there. _

.

.

.

.

“No, Mother, and that’s final.” Betty stabbed the ‘off’ button on the staticky cordless phone, briefly lamenting the fact that the massive black rotary she’d picked up at a thrift shop was in for repairs. The heavy receiver crashing onto the cradle would have sent a much stronger message as she hung up on her mother, but we can’t have everything in this world, now can we?

 

She groaned and tossed back a generous measure of extremely expensive scotch, wondering how far the crystal would shatter if she dropped it in the alley. Not worth it, but the smash would undoubtedly be satisfying.

 

“Twenty-eight years old and still arguing about birthdays with my mother,” she mumbled, going back into her flat. “Ridiculous, hey, Caramel?”

 

The fluffy ginger cat looked disdainfully at the trailing satin cord of Betty’s dressing gown and let out a soft ‘prrrow,’ as if to say ‘I know you’re testing me, Madam, and I’m not going to dignify your teasing with a response.’

 

“You’re no help.”

 

Six months she’d lived in the airy flat above the studio, and it had taken almost that long to make it feel like home. While she kept her studio clinical and her reception area elegant, her apartment was light and comfortable, with soft blue paint, gauzy white curtains and squashy oversized armchairs in a pale floral pattern. It was simple and summery, and it was all hers.

 

Her business phone chirped and she sighed, rolling her eyes at Caramel. “No rest for the weary, hey kitty?”  The email was brief and to the point; a request for consultation regarding the commission of paintings inspired by Betty’s tattoo style. Unusual, but not unheard of. She tapped out a quick reply confirming her availability the following week and tossed the phone aside in favour of the remote control. 

 

She had a date with Sergeant Jeffords. 

  
  
  
  


 

 

Monday dawned clear and chilly; the first of the leaves were tinged with gold and there was a crispness in the air that suggested wool sweaters and leather boots. But, for her appointment with Miss Jones, Betty chose instead a black mock turtleneck and a pair of tailored tangerine trousers with alarmingly high studded black stilettos. 

 

She was an artist, first and foremost, but a quick Google search had revealed the equally artistic Miss Jones to be extremely business-like in her appearance. A peek at the portfolio of the proprietor of Jones’ Interiors had confirmed that Betty wanted to work with her, and Betty was nothing if not an expert in putting forth the right image. Today: professional, with a touch of sass. 

 

A lady in the street, and all that. 

 

Her black cashmere trench coat made its seasonal debut for the short walk. Making a mental note to toss some gloves into her purse before the days got any cooler, she tucked her portfolio under her arm and pulled open the front door of the design office, stepping smartly over the threshold and stopping short in the doorway, almost letting the door shut on her as she locked eyes with the man sitting behind the reception desk. 

 

Betty Cooper, artist extraordinaire, painter of human canvases, knew beauty when she saw it. And beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it.

 

This man was breathtaking. 

 

What an interesting twist.

 

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he said, looking mildly surprised as he stood up behind his desk. “Can I help you?”

 

_ A gentleman _ . “Betty Cooper.” She set her portfolio down on a chair and unbuttoned her coat, turning with a wondering smile when he crossed the small reception area to catch the coat as she slid it off her shoulders. “Thank you. I have a consultation with Miss Jones this morning.”

 

“Miss Cooper? From Painted Skin?” The man,  _ secretary? Assistant? _ carefully hung the coat on a rack by the door and leaned over his desk, picking up a leather appointment book.  

 

“Yes. Miss Jones has a client interested in my artwork, I believe.” Betty scooped up her portfolio and hugged it to her chest, studiously ignoring the way the man’s trousers stretched across his thighs as he moved. “Have I got my timings wrong?”

 

“No,” he murmured, flipping through the ledger. “Miss Jones just doesn’t usually schedule her own appointments. I must have missed the memo.” 

 

“Good help is so hard to find these days,” she teased. 

 

He looked over at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, and she winked, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “Alas.” A smile broke across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I don’t know why she keeps me around.”

 

“Do you make good coffee?”

 

“I do, as a matter of fact.” He leaned against his desk, grinning, arms folded across his chest. “Maybe that’s the reason. Would you like a cup?”

 

“No, thank you. Caffeine makes my hands shake.” She gestured to her portfolio. “Not a good look in my profession.”

 

He nodded and moved behind his desk, rifling through a filing cabinet and pulling out a thick folder. “I can see that. Wouldn’t want to smudge that line work.”

 

Betty’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You say that like you’re familiar with my line work,” she laughed. 

 

“I am. Your last spread in  _ Inked _ magazine earned you a fan for life. That is you? Elizabeth Ink?”

 

“Guilty.” Betty sat down in an elegant wing-back chair, crossing her ankles neatly. “And you are?”

 

“Call me Jack, Miss Cooper. Everyone does.” There was a teasing glint in his eye, and she got the feeling that only the fact that they were in his place of work was preventing him from flirting with her.

 

Betty sat back in her chair, resting her elbows on the sides and pressing the tips of her fingers together. “A fan of Miss Fisher?”

 

“It’s a guilty pleasure. I like intelligent women with guts and style.” Place of work be damned, apparently, judging by the way his gaze travelled from her shoes to her elegant chignon - and everything in between.

 

“Who doesn’t.” 

 

Jack stroked his jaw thoughtfully, regarding her with a half smile and a distant look, as though he was thinking about someone that wasn’t there. Betty felt a brief moment of recognition that vanished as soon as the interior office door opened and Jack straightened up, striding to the coat rack and retrieving a designer coat. 

 

A tall, overdressed woman glided out of the office, followed closely by a petite brunette that Betty immediately recognized as Miss Jones. The other woman, presumably the client, was speaking quickly, firing off instructions even as Jack helped her into her coat. The barrage of last-minute demands continued until the woman sailed out the door, brushing her gloved hand along his arm as she went. 

 

He didn’t react, just flicked an eyebrow at Miss Jones and closed the door quietly. “Miss Cooper, Miss Jones,” he said, bowing his head in Betty’s direction and handing Miss Jones a file.

 

“Thanks, Jack. Miss Cooper, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Miss Jones crossed the room to shake Betty’s hand, barely coming up to her nose. “Thank you for coming in today.”

 

“My pleasure, Miss Jones. I couldn’t stay away once I saw your portfolio.”

 

A smile that looked far too familiar lit up Miss Jones’ face and Betty looked quickly between her and Jack, assessing. “Likewise. Did Jack offer you a drink?”

 

“He did. I’m fine, thank you.”

 

“Good. Well, come on in. Let’s talk art.”

.

.

.

.

Jughead watched Miss Cooper follow Jellybean into her office, a model of poise and class, and let out a harsh breath as the door closed behind them. Elizabeth Ink was a well-known artist, and he’d admired her work for years, but she kept a low profile personally. Her face never appeared on her Instagram or in her photo shoots, and until today, he’d had no idea what she looked like - until a week ago, he didn’t know her real last name.

 

Betty Cooper. 

 

Blonde, angelic, and, oddly, not a single visible tattoo, just a discrete silver stud in her nose. She was not what he would have expected. For the first time since high school, he found himself replaying a conversation in his head, wondering if he’d made a complete fool of himself talking to a pretty girl.  

 

Jellybean would kill him if she knew he’d been flirting with a colleague, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

  
  


The telephone was mercifully quiet for a change, and he managed to edit an entire chapter of his novel before Jellybean’s office door opened again and the two women stepped out, laughing about something. He stood up automatically, watching in amusement as his little sister’s professional facade dropped briefly, her hands waving dramatically as she chatted to Miss Cooper. 

 

“...and Jack will be in touch.” Jellybean shook Miss Cooper’s hand warmly, handed Jughead the file to put away and excused herself, going back into her office and shutting the door. 

 

“She’s wonderful.” Miss Cooper set her portfolio down and fished a small notebook out of her purse. “Are you related, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“My sister,” Jughead said. “Her executive assistant is on maternity leave, and the locum is only available part-time.”

 

She nodded, smiling as though truly made happy by the information. “You look a lot alike. It’s nice of you to help out.”

 

“Anything for family.”

 

“Personal credo?”

 

“Mantra - easily remembered and recited when required.” He grinned and went to get her coat, holding it open for her. “Not everyone that comes into this office is as nice as you.”

 

“Given the reception I’ve received in this street, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said wryly, turning and sliding her arms into the sleeves. “Thank you.”  

 

Jughead resisted the temptation to brush his fingers against her bare arms as he settled the coat on her shoulders. “No problem, Miss Cooper.”

 

“Betty.” She spun around to face him, her eyes widening when she realized how close he was standing. “Please, call me Betty.”

 

“Betty.” He took a half step back, loathe to move out of her personal space but suddenly in need of the extra oxygen. Did human eyes really come in that shade of green? He cleared his throat and said, “I’m Jughead. Jones.”

 

“Not Jack?”

 

“No. That’s just a … a stage name, I guess. People who put gold-plated mirrors in their bathrooms don’t want to deal with a ‘Jughead’.”

 

“People who put gold-plated mirrors in their bathrooms want their heads examined,” she laughed, buttoning her coat. “I’ll be back on Friday,  _ Jughead _ . Will you be here?”

 

He held the front door open for her as she collected her purse and portfolio, tearing a sheet of paper out of her small notebook. “With bells on, Miss - Betty.”

 

“Good. Here’s my number, in case you need to be in touch before then.” She passed him the sheet of paper and winked as she strolled out the door. “Until Friday, Mr Jones.”

 

He couldn’t wait. 

 

*

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was contemplating putting in headphones so he could get some work done when the front door flew open and Elizabeth Ink herself materialized in the reception area, completely overtaking the small, understated space and sucking all of the oxygen out of the room like a five-alarm fire.
> 
>  
> 
> Jughead, having expected Miss Cooper to appear as she had on Monday, looking professional but creative, completely forgot himself as he stared, slack-jawed, at a woman his teenage self would have lost all brain power over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys ... I'm so sorry. I have no excuse for how atrociously long I've let this sit. If you're still here, thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this humble offering. No smutty smut yet, but I do believe I've delivered on the fluffy flirting.

Friday morning found Betty sitting on her fire escape, paintbrush in hand, tossing around acrylics as though the brush had a mind of its own. Although she grudgingly acknowledged that it was getting to be far too cold to paint outside, the pale morning light was perfect for the piece she had in mind and she was loathe to pass up the opportunity to get it down on canvas.

 

Utterly absorbed in the swirling storm of colours, with paint splatters up her arms and in her hair, she probably would have lost the whole morning to her work if not for the sudden roar of a motorcycle shattering the peaceful silence in the alley. Startled, she looked over her shoulder to see Jughead kick down the stand of his bike and pull his helmet off, shaking a hand through his hair.

 

She flushed, biting her lip as she watched him swing his leg over the bike and secure his helmet to the seat. God, when was the last time she’d seen a man that attractive? she wondered, dragging her gaze over him in a way that felt almost physical, and definitely inappropriate for a colleague. She’d Googled him on Monday, as soon as she returned from her meeting with Miss Jones, and the vindication she’d felt on tracking him down had been incredibly satisfying. That brief moment of recognition she’d felt before hearing his name had certainly been justified; she smiled, running her fingers absentmindedly down her right thigh.

 

Fortunately for her dignity, he didn’t notice her ogling him, and she stared at the back door of Jones’ Interiors for an embarrassingly long time after it closed behind him. Finally shaking her head and giving herself a stern mental scolding, she turned back to her work and picked up her brush. Her mind was elsewhere, though, so she gave up in disgust and packed away her things, stalking into her flat to get ready for her first client.

 

.

.

.

  


Jellybean was in a foul mood. Mrs Carver, apparently unconcerned with building codes, fire hazards, or (in Jughead’s opinion) good taste, was insisting upon the addition of a two-sided, wood-burning fireplace in her master bedroom and bathroom - on a load-bearing wall, with nowhere to put a chimney. Jughead had been eavesdropping on the meeting for close to an hour, hearing Jellybean’s patience wear thinner and thinner as she explained for the umpteenth time that this project required an architect and a general contractor, not an interior designer, with Mrs Carver countering just as adamantly that she’d ‘hired Jellybean to make her vision happen’.  
  


He was contemplating putting in headphones so he could get some work done when the front door flew open and Elizabeth Ink herself materialized in the reception area, completely overtaking the small, understated space and sucking all of the oxygen out of the room like a five-alarm fire.

 

Jughead, having expected Miss Cooper to appear as she had on Monday, looking professional but creative, completely forgot himself as he stared, slack-jawed, at a woman his teenage self would have lost all brain power over.

 

But he was an adult - a successful man who could control himself around beautiful women.

 

He was functioning at least fifty per cent.

 

(Forty per cent.)

 

Something clicked in his brain and he forced himself to clamber belatedly to his feet, coming around the desk to help Betty off with her coat - an expensive-looking cashmere trench worn open over a cherry-coloured bandage dress that showed not only every curve of her indescribable figure, but the longest legs he’d ever seen off a runway, and miles of intricate, delicate tattoos.

 

_Professional, professional, professional ..._

 

He managed to get out a mostly-coherent greeting when he met her eyes, brimming over with mirth.

 

“You’re staring, Jack,” she teased, her voice low and amused. “Not what you were expecting?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Miss Cooper.” He knew he was being an ass, at best, but he could honestly say that he’d never treated any woman the way he was currently treating her.

 

Not that that excused his behaviour.

 

“ _Betty_. You’re at least trying to keep eye contact, so I’ll let it slide this once.” Betty sat down on a carved wooden sofa and crossed her ankles, smiling up at him. “My consultation ran late this morning, I didn’t have time to change.”

 

“I didn’t think artists dressed so formally. I would have thought something comfortable that can handle ink stains …” Jughead made his way behind his desk and collapsed into his own chair, collecting himself and leaning back comfortably. “That looks like dry-clean only.”

 

Betty laughed quietly, glancing cautiously at Jellybean’s closed office door. “It is, but this is how I dress for consultations, conventions, shoots. I usually wear clothes I stole from my brother when I actually work.”

 

“Which one is the real you?” He could have bitten his tongue the minute the words left his mouth. “I’m sorry, that was too personal.”

 

“It’s a fair question,” she said, shrugging. "All of them, on some level. Appropriate clothes for every occasion, my mother would say. I don’t wear anything I don’t like.”

 

“Well, then you’re a step ahead of me,” he chuckled, gesturing at his crisp navy dress shirt. “My sister picks out most of my clothes.”

 

“She has excellent taste.” Betty’s tongue poked teasingly between her teeth and a mischievous twinkle flashed in her eye - the look of a person making up their mind about something. “Does she dress you for book signings, too?”

 

Jughead’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Oh don’t be coy, Mr _Jones_ ,” Betty purred, standing and prowling purposefully across the room and into his workspace. “I know exactly who you are.” She leaned against his desk, far too close for propriety, and crossed her right leg in front of her left. “I’m going to need you to sign this.”

 

Feeling the urge to loosen a tie he wasn’t wearing, Jughead inched back in his chair, cursing Jellybean and her refusal to have ‘glorified wheelchairs’ in her office. “Sign what, Miss - Betty?” he croaked, staring determinedly into her eyes.

 

“This, of course,” she whispered, inching the hem of her dress - already dangerously short - up her thigh. “Right here,” she added, caressing a spot just above her knee, under a block of swirling black text.

 

Entirely without his consent, his gaze dropped to her leg and his mouth fell open.

 

_… for the ability to endure suffering is only one test of strength …_

 

His eyes flew over the paragraph, unconsciously mouthing the words as he followed the letters down her leg. “You …”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I wrote that.”

 

“You did.” She laughed again, lifting herself up to perch on the desk and crossing her legs in a manner he could only describe as _lethal_. “I did this as soon as I read it. It’s brilliant.”

 

“That’s from my book.” He stared up at her stupidly, his attention flicking between her leg (God, who had legs like that?) and her face (who had _eyes_ like that?). “You tattooed my book on your leg.”

 

“Yup.” She grinned at him. “You know, I figured a _Times_ bestselling author would be more eloquent.”

 

Giving his head a mental shake, he pursed his lips in mock disapproval and glared at her. “And on how many authors’ desks do you generally sit like that?”

 

“Only the attractive ones.” She shrugged nonchalantly and hopped off the desk, strolling back across the waiting room and settling into her seat just as the office door flew open and Mrs Carver stalked out, still listing all the ways Jellybean could make her fireplace happen.

  
Jughead managed to tune in at “surely you know how to lay brick, Miss Jones?” and jumped to collect Mrs Carver’s coat and help her into it.

 

By some stroke of luck, she left shortly thereafter, her parting words sounding more like a threat than a farewell, and Jellybean turned wearily to Jughead and handed him a file. “We’re going to need a sub on this one, Jack. See who’s available next week, please.”

 

Jughead took the file and patted Jellybean’s shoulder sympathetically. “Sure thing, Miss Jones. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Jellybean smiled wanly and shook her head, then clapped her hands and turned to Betty. “Miss Cooper,” she said brightly. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like a drink?” She glared briefly at Jughead, as though she knew he hadn’t offered. “Jack would be happy to get you one, I’m sure.”

 

Betty spared Jughead an amused glance. “I’m sure Jack would be thrilled to get me a drink, but I’m fine for just now, thank you.” She winked at him as she brushed by his desk and followed Jellybean into her office.

 

He could have kicked himself for his base reaction to her - even that cursed pseudonym rolling off her tongue intrigued him.

 

And she knew it.

 

(He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.)

 

She wasn’t wrong though - he would like to get her a drink. A dark red wine on the balcony of his penthouse overlooking the valley, maybe. Or a light whisky in front of his fireplace …

  
  


 

 

If Betty Cooper - slash - Elizabeth Ink was going to be a staple in the office, which seemed likely, he was going to have to find some way to control himself around her. Gentlemen didn’t daydream about hot lady tattoo artists draped across their desks, or cherry-red dresses decorating the office floor. They certainly didn’t _ogle_ them.

 

Sighing, he flipped through Jellybean’s Rolodex, pulling numbers for various architects, engineers and contractors she’d worked with before. If it was possible to make her client happy, Jellybean would offer a referral, but she wasn’t about to swing the sledgehammer herself.

 

Not that she couldn’t, mind you.

  
  
  


 

 

Despite a looming deadline and a stack of revisions to do, Jughead couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he found himself glancing at Jellybean’s office door every few minutes, his knee bouncing under his desk, waiting for Betty to re-appear.

 

When they’d met on Monday, he’d found her attractive and intriguing. Her appearance today had been so far outside of what he’d expected that his attraction had exploded into a full-blown craving. On some level, he was disgusted with himself because he really didn’t know much about her - aside from her excellent taste in literature, he thought wryly - but he was extremely eager to change that.

 

When they finally emerged from Miss Jones’ inner sanctum, Jellybean sent him a conspiratorial wink and quickly thanked Betty, shaking her hand and excusing herself without even coming into the foyer. The behaviour was out of character for her, professionally, but she’d never quite outgrown her teenage habit of matchmaking.

 

And here he’d thought colleagues were off limits.

 

“So,” Betty said, sitting on his desk as though their conversation hadn’t been interrupted. “I’m kind of new in town. I don’t suppose you know anyone who might have some good restaurant recommendations?”

 

_Does six months count as new in town_ ? he wondered. _It doesn’t matter, you pedantic idiot. She’s flirting with you. Keep up._  “As it happens, Miss Cooper, I’m a terrible cook and I live to eat. If you’re free tonight, I’d love to take you to my favourite place.”

 

“As it happens, Mr Jones,” she grinned, drawing out his name, “I am very free tonight.”  The gaze she struck him with was nothing short of seductive, and then, again with the air of sudden decisiveness, she added, “all night, in fact,” and … well, it’s possible he blacked out for half a second.

 

When he came back to his senses, he was relieved to discover that his mouth didn’t actually need his brain to function, and was busy making plans on his behalf. He came to at, “Pick me up at seven, then. What should I wear?” and then he was just about gone again. _Anything_ , he thought. _Nothing. That dress, and don’t bother putting anything under it._

 

Good God, what was wrong with him? “Whatever you like is fine,” he told her evenly.  “It’s not a fancy place, but you see all kinds of getups. It’s right on Whyte Avenue.”

 

“Say no more,” she laughed. “I should get going; I have one more client today.”  

 

He nodded, collecting her coat and holding it open for her. “I’ll see you at seven then. Don’t work too hard, Elizabeth Ink.”

 

It might have been his imagination, but he thought her eyes flicked to his lips before she grinned and reached for the doorknob. “I’ll do my best, J Jones the Third. Don’t be late.”

 

.

.

.

 

Betty’s afternoon client was a regular, and thank God he was one who didn’t like to chat while he was in the chair. She was more than capable of multitasking, but it was unlikely that Frank would want to listen to her gush about the hot executive assistant down the street, and there was very little else on her mind.

 

So while Frank plugged in his vintage iPod (Betty refrained from rolling her eyes at the adjective) and snoozed on her table, she applied a faultless nude Hecate to his back and let her mind wander.

 

She wasn’t entirely sure what had come over her that day, sitting on Jughead - slash - Jack’s desk and all but throwing herself at him, but she couldn’t find it in her to regret it. It’s true what they say about clothes affecting behaviour, she mused, tracing the outline of Hecate’s leg. Maybe Elizabeth Ink should venture out of the studio more often.

 

It was obvious that Jughead was affected by the persona - very few straight men weren’t. Betty knew what she looked like when she’d stepped into the design office lobby that morning, and she was perfectly aware of what kind of reaction she’d been hoping to get from Jughead when she did.

 

He’d delivered.

 

On the other hand, he’d been almost equally interested in her on their first meeting, when she _hadn’t_ been dressed as though she belonged on the side of a B-17. The only difference in his behaviour, aside from his initial shock, had been in his reaction to _her_ behaviour. She got the feeling that the ball was very much in her court, and he’d follow her lead just about anywhere.

 

She wasn’t stupid enough to let physical attraction dictate her actions, and she certainly wasn’t going to decide before their date whether or not she was going to kiss him, let alone sleep with him. The evening was a blank page of possibilities, and she was determined to go in with an open mind.

 

So four hours later, having finished the outline and a good portion of Hecate’s lower half, she cleaned Frank up and sent him home, sterilised her studio and equipment, and headed upstairs to shower and get ready.

 

Elizabeth Ink was not going on this date, she decided as she looked through her closet. She wanted to get to know the real Jughead, and she wanted him to know Betty. He was obviously attracted to her alter-ego, but she got the feeling that he’d like her nerdy side just as much. He’d been flabbergasted to see his own words decorating her leg, and readily admitted to reading cheesy chick-lit pulp fiction.

 

She wondered if he played Scrabble. He probably did.

 

With half of her wardrobe on the floor, she finally decided on a buttery leather mini skirt in a soft brown colour, matching suede pumps, and a thin, cream silk blouse under a tailored tweed jacket. She also decided, looking at the mess, that she would not be inviting Jughead up for a drink.

 

The messy bun she’d put her hair in while she worked added something to the look, she thought, settling her glasses on her nose. Dishevelled and carefree, but still classy.

 

And pretty cute, if she did say so herself.

 

For the second time that day, the roar of a motorcycle intruded on her musings, and she glanced at the clock with a smile. Six fifty-eight. Punctual to a fault.

 

.

.

.

 

“Have you ever been on a bike before?”  The stereotype screamed yes - she was wearing leather and tattoos, for goodness’ sake - but he had to ask.  “I can call an Uber.”

 

“No, this is fine,” she said, grinning. “I know my way around most things that can go fast.”

 

He let that slide, dropping his gaze to her skirt and her shoes, and raised an eyebrow in question. “And you realize that if we fall, you’re going to be the new poster girl for gravel-imbedded ink.”

 

“I’m aware. You look like you can take care of me.” She bit the tip of her tongue in challenge and tilted her head to the side. “But if you’re scared, I can drive.” The sudden image of her astride his Harley - those long legs cradling the engine, and nothing between her skin and the seat but the secret Victoria would never tell - almost had him handing over his keys and bowing at her feet, but then she held up her own car keys and nodded her head at a row of small garages across the alley. “My car’s in there. Your call.”

 

Common sense said to take her car; pure male desire wanted every part of her wrapped around him with four hundred pounds of adrenaline between their legs.

 

Common sense won.

 

Common sense got a gold star when she unlocked the garage door and the sleek body of a late-sixties era Chevy appeared, almost invisible in the shadows. Jughead whistled under his breath. “Where’d you find this?” he asked, absentmindedly running his fingers along the hood. “What year is she? ‘65?”

 

“ ‘67. Found most of her in the junkyard,” Betty answered, unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’ll pull out for you, there’s no room to get in on the passenger’s side.”

 

The Impala’s engine growled to life with a noise that rivalled his bike, and when he slid onto the roomy bench seat next to Betty, he decided that her car was the far superior option for the evening. “So, the junkyard?” he asked, directing her to the freeway while he plugged the address of the restaurant into her phone.

 

“Yeah. I bought an old junker on eBay. No engine, but it still had a lot of the original parts.” Betty shifted gears and merged onto the highway, flicking on the radio and turning the volume down to background level. “She was in rough shape, but I spent a few years collecting bits and pieces here and there, drove my mother nuts banging away in her garage every weekend, and eventually drove this beauty home.” She turned to him and smiled happily. “Her name’s Velma.”

 

“Velma,” he repeated, mirroring her grin. “You built this car, is what you’re telling me.”

 

“Well. _Restored_ is more accurate.”

 

“Restored.” The car looked like it had just been driven off its original lot. “Alright, we can call it that. Where’d you learn it all?”

 

“My dad,” she said, changing lanes and signalling for the off-ramp. “He was always restoring something in the driveway, and I guess I thought that was more fun than planning garden parties with my mom.”

 

Her tone changed with the mention of her mother so he let the subject drop, digesting the information. Aside from Jellybean, he couldn’t think of anyone he knew that was so multi-talented, and it intrigued the hell out of him. “Any other hobbies?”

 

“What is this?” she laughed. “20 questions? You first.”

 

“Food,” he answered promptly. “My first love and favourite hobby is eating. Followed by writing, obviously, music, travelling, and reading.”

 

“Where do you like to go?”

 

“Anywhere but home,” he said dryly. “I’ve done the great American road trip a few times. Took my bike through the Canadian Rockies last summer; spent some time hibernating in this little forgotten town on the California coast while I was finishing my last book. Nothing to do there except drink coffee, but the cafe owner had brewing it down to a science.”

 

“That sounds nice. You like your solitude then?”

 

“Writing is kind of a solitary pastime. I’ve never figured out why, but most people get pretty offended when I spend hours glaring at my laptop instead of talking to them when we hang out.”

 

Betty snorted and made a show of rolling her eyes at the steering wheel. “I can’t imagine why,” she said, mimicking his tone. “I personally love going out with people who ignore me completely.”

 

“I can’t imagine anyone ignoring you for long.”

 

He noted the faint blush on her cheeks and the tiny quirk of the corner of her mouth as she busied herself shifting gears.

 

“Yes, well.” She glanced over at him, briefly taking her eyes off the road. “I suppose I am fairly unusual looking,” she deflected, gesturing vaguely at her legs. “People stare.”

 

“Unusual is one word for it,” he agreed. “Stunning would have been my first choice.”

 

The blush deepened. “Careful, J Jones. Too much flattery and my ego will get too big to fit in the car.”

 

“Good thing we’re almost at the restaurant then.”

 

She laughed and turned into a public parking lot, sliding neatly into a spot that Jughead wouldn’t have even attempted to park in, and turned off the engine. “Good thing.”

 

.

.

.

 

The dimly lit, outdated bowling alley wasn’t exactly what Betty expected when Jughead told her to dress for Whyte Ave - a hot mess of a pedestrian street, littered with restaurants, bars, clubs, and people ranging from the elite of the business world to the most exotic of the alternative scene. “Run-down” was simply not a word associated with the zip code.

 

No one was actually bowling, and the paper scorecards stacked on the dusty counter were yellowing at the edges. Betty glanced apprehensively around while Jughead spoke in a low voice to the attendant, wondering if she was missing out on some kind of joke.

 

“Shall we, Miss Cooper?” he asked, touching her elbow lightly and making her jump. “You alright?”

 

She nodded politely. “I didn’t really dress for bowling,” she said self-deprecatingly, hoping her unease didn’t show on her face.

 

“Don’t worry, we’re not here to bowl,” he chuckled. “And I promise you’re not the final girl, either. I know what you’re probably thinking but trust me, okay?”

 

“My sister knows who I’m with,” she informed him, smiling wryly. “And we have a GPS sharing app. If you kill me, a fair-sized cult will come after you, armed with crystals and incense.” She laughed at his look of confusion. “I trust you,” she added, taking pity on him.

 

“Why do I feel like you weren’t kidding about the cult?” he asked, opening the door to the men’s washroom and gesturing for her to precede him.

 

“Because I wasn’t.” She paused at the threshold. “The men’s room? On a first date? What kind of girl do you think I am?”  The obvious jump for her brain to make was clearly not the correct one, judging by his amused, secretive smile, and she couldn’t help giggling at a punchline she hadn’t heard yet.

 

“Hopefully the kind who knows how to get into the Ministry.” Jughead put his hand lightly at the small of her back and steered her gently into the first stall, where she was immediately faced with a velvet curtain.

 

She stared at him, bewildered, as he pulled the stall door shut behind them and the curtain swung open to reveal a brick-lined staircase glittering with fairy lights.

 

“Invitation only,” he told her, grinning at the look on her face. “The owners have a flair for the dramatic.”

.

.

.

 

So maybe he should have told her upfront that the restaurant-slash-jazz club was disguised as an abandoned bowling alley. And it probably wasn’t smart to be so cagey about the entrance. Creepy serial-killer vibes were not attractive, he knew, unless one happened to be a fictional Seattle billionaire.

 

(And even then it was debatable.)

 

But, listening to Betty’s bubble of surprised laughter when they started up the stairs, he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry. He was, however, relieved that she’d taken it in stride. She would have been completely justified in sacking him and running out as fast as her heels could carry her.

 

“This is amazing,” she whispered as he took her jacket and handed to the host. “How did you find this place?”

 

“My best friend owns it,” he told her, leaning close so he wouldn’t have to shout over the singer as they wound their way through a maze of small tables. “She bought it fresh out of high school and turned it into this. I’ve been critiquing the menu for her since day one.”

 

Betty looked around delightedly as the host seated her in a shadowy booth in the corner and handed her a menu. “I won’t need that, then,” she said. “You can order for me since you know what’s good.”

 

“If you like.” He got up from the table and then paused. “Any restrictions I should know about?”

 

“Not really. I don’t care for chocolate chip pancakes, but I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  
  
  


 

It absolutely was not a problem. A few words to the host granted him access to the kitchen where the chef knew him by sight; a few more words (including, ‘date’ and ‘overwhelm me’) had said chef gleefully barking orders at a hapless sous-chef and throwing Jughead out of the kitchen with a condescending pat on the head, followed by a whack on the backside with a wooden spoon.

 

(The perils of introducing your grade-school sweetheart to your best friend when she’s in urgent need of a chef.)

 

He came back to the table to find Betty absentmindedly playing with a small charm on her necklace, and staring out the window with her bottom lip firmly between her teeth.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, sliding into the booth next to her.

 

“Expensive at half the price,” she laughed, turning to him. “I was half trying to remember if I’m due for an oil change, and half thinking that a dark jazz club is a very suggestive choice for a first date.”

 

Although that hadn’t been why he chose the restaurant - it really was his favourite place to eat - he could definitely see her point. The dimly-lit club was done in blacks and dark reds, with rich dark wood accents and hints of brass here and there. The tables were set so diners sat side-by-side rather than across from each other, and the breathy voice of the singer floating through the air hinted at secret passions and lusty remembrances.

 

Their booth, in particular, was almost invisible to other patrons, and he was certainly not the first man to entertain thoughts of seducing a woman in that very seat.

 

“I hope the fact that you didn’t sneak out while I was gone means that you don’t mind a little suggestion?”

 

Dropping her gaze and biting her tongue briefly, she shook her head and glanced up at him with a slow blink. “I am very amenable to a little suggestion.” She shifted closer to him on the crushed-velvet bench and folded her legs so her thigh almost rested on his. “Are you?”

 

Jughead leaned down to murmur in her ear, “I’m well past suggestion, Miss Cooper. I’m yours to do what you like with.”

 

“You sound very sure, considering you barely even know me.”

 

Yes, the same thought had crossed his mind earlier in the day, but the intervening hours had brought him to a different conclusion. “I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I know you’re talented and passionate and confident. My sister likes you, you like the parts of my writing that are _me,_ and you have a sense of adventure. I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts, and my instincts tell me that whatever is attracting me to you is worth listening to.”

 

.

.

.

  


Betty, too, had learned (after a hard-fought battle) to trust herself; to make choices that would make her happy, not that satisfied some need to do the right thing. Gone were the days when she would worry about which date was appropriate for a first kiss, or whether or not she should make the first move. Her mother's voice no longer occupied a space in her head, telling her what nice girls did.

 

Jughead intrigued her, beyond his status as one of her favourite authors, and for some inexplicable reason, she trusted him completely.

 

Sitting in that dark booth with him - close enough to catch a subtle hint of his aftershave, with his low voice sending shivers down her spine and his hand resting lightly on her knee - both her instincts and her body were in clear agreement regarding the right thing to do.

 

She leaned into him, tilting her head and letting the last of his words wash over her skin, his nose brushing her ear and his lips teasing the side of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed a soft ‘ _yes’_ when he asked if he could kiss her, his hand sliding up her thigh to rest on her waist.

 

He didn’t turn her head to catch her lips like she expected, instead pressing his to the little hollow where her neck met her shoulder and laving gently with his tongue. Her whole body erupted in goosebumps as he explored, leaving hot, tingling skin in his wake. When he finally kissed along her jaw and cradled her neck in his hand, letting his mouth brush lightly against hers as though wanting to wait just a little longer, she couldn’t help but sigh in frustration.

 

“What?” he whispered, pulling away.

 

“Kiss me, Jughead.”

 

He swallowed dryly, his eyes closed and his breath shallow. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

 

“We’ll risk it,” she murmured, threading her fingers through his hair and watching him as she drew him close enough to taste. “Please.”

 

His restraint seemed to vanish as soon as their lips touched, his hands sliding around her and pulling her against him. He coaxed her mouth open with soft, insistent flicks of his tongue, letting out a tiny moan that sent a jolt right through her.

 

Or maybe that was her; a quiet sigh of assent, a plea for more, an acknowledgement that she’d grossly overestimated her own ability to stay in control - because it took everything she had not to slide onto his lap and press against the heat of his body.

 

The thin shell of her blouse felt like nothing under his hands; it might as well have been her bare skin he was stroking. She found herself gripping his hair and tugging his head back, sure that it was him that moaned when she grazed her teeth against his earlobe.

 

“You’re going to get me banned from this place,” he muttered, one hand dropping to her hip and squeezing as she scraped her nails through his hair and pressed her forehead against his, panting for breath.

 

“No one’s looking,” she whispered back, catching his bottom lip lightly between hers. “And I won’t tell.”

 

He didn’t pull away, indulging himself in another slow trail of kisses down her neck. “I’m not good at keeping quiet.”

 

Betty didn’t really see the problem with that; if the truth of that statement was as arousing as the threat of it, she’d be on her knees under the table before dessert. “Promises, promises.”

 

She flexed her fingers in his hair again and he bit back a groan. “God, are we doing this backwards?”

 

“I don’t think so,” she sighed, pleasantly dizzy and only half paying attention. “Why?”

 

“I don’t even know your favourite food and I’m already wondering what _you_ taste like.”

 

That gave her pause. “Fair point,” she laughed shakily, giving herself some breathing room and smoothing her rumpled shirt with one hand. “I seem to remember telling myself to get to know you before I fell into bed with you tonight.” She gave his hair an affectionate tug and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps we should go at this in a more … conventional manner?”

 

Jughead wrinkled his nose in an adorable pout and chased her lips as she pulled away. “Me and my big mouth,” he grumbled. “God, you’re sexy.”

 

“I’m smart, too,” she teased. “Now’s your chance for 20 questions.”

  


_tbc_  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dinner date continues, and the flirty flirting becomes the promised smutty smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jandy, I have no words. Thank you, my beloved beta <3

Twenty questions turned into fewer than five; Jughead had never been part of such a natural conversation before. 

 

Betty’s favourite food was homemade macaroni and cheese, which lead to a spirited debate regarding homemade versus store-bought pasta, a long reminiscence about the various farmers’ markets they’d each visited in their day, and ultimately a joint eulogy to the downfall of the small business owner at the hands of corporate America.

 

Somewhere between “What’s your favourite holiday?” and “Of course it’s a sentimentalized cash grab, but how can you hate a day devoted to candy?”, a small team of servers arrived, putting an end to his faux-outrage by presenting them with a dizzying array of tiny dishes and the compliments of the chef. 

 

Betty’s eyes widened at the display. “Wow,” she said. “They don’t do things by half here, do they?”

 

“Not even a little bit.” Jughead laughed. “Plus, the chef is an old friend and she likes to remind me how amazing she is.”

 

“Ah. We all need a friend like that to keep us in check.”

 

Jughead nodded, pouring her a glass of sparkling water. Toni’s chief ambition in life was to make sure that he stayed humble, no matter how successful he became. He loved her for it. “The morning I hit the best-seller list, she sent me a photograph of myself in middle school - braces, geeky clothes, bad haircut - called me a nerd, and then reminded me of the time I locked myself out of my dorm room in a bath towel.”

 

“Sounds like my big brother,” Betty admitted. “The first time I was in  _ Inked _ , he reminded me that my first tattoo would have been a badly-appropriated tribal butterfly on my lower back if it wasn’t for him.”

 

“Yikes.”

 

“I know,” she nodded. “I owe him one.  _ But _ , in my defence, I was seventeen.”

 

Jughead chuckled, raising his glass. “To the friends that keep us grounded.”

 

“To friends.”

  
  
  
  


Between bites of exquisite food, Betty steered the conversation back towards the personal arena they’d started out in. “So, how did you meet the chef?”

 

“Toni? We were neighbours growing up, and her grandfather owned the bar where my father worked. We did everything together when we were kids.”

 

“Do I detect the lingering sweetness of young romance?” Betty teased.

 

He grinned around a sip of wine and winked at her. “Jealous already?”

 

“I don’t do jealousy, but I’m a sucker for a story about childhood friends turned sweethearts. Indulge me.”

 

Jughead sighed gustily. “How can I say no to that? She was my very first crush. We went to the sixth-grade dance together and we were both too embarrassed to do anything but hover by the punch bowl and stare at our feet. She did let me kiss her goodnight, though. Sort of.”

 

“On the cheek?” Betty giggled, noting the reminiscent smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“I was aiming for her left, she was aiming for my right, we landed somewhere in the middle and I kind of licked her nose.”

 

She choked on a laugh and sputtered into her water glass. “Oh my gosh, that’s adorable. How long did it take to get back to normal after that?”

 

“Winter break was awkward,” he laughed. “Then she dragged me behind the bleachers, informed me that we were better off as friends, and we made a blood pact never to speak of it again.”

 

“Seems perfectly reasonable to me. Is she the best friend that owns this place?”

 

“No, that’s Veronica. My best friend  _ en titre _ , but honestly more like a sister at this point. No romance to speak of.”

 

“I suppose you can’t kiss all your friends.” It hadn’t escaped Betty’s notice that two of Jughead’s best friends were women, and she liked what it implied about him. 

 

“You could, but I can only imagine the kind of epithets that would earn me.”

  
  
  
  


He liked her laugh. 

 

She laughed a lot, and it was real. It annoyed him when people tried to cultivate their laugh to be attractive. He much preferred one like Betty’s, that bubbled straight up from her belly like it was beyond her control. 

 

(It was nice to know that she really thought he was funny - no one could fake a snort like that.)

 

When her giggles subsided and she leaned back against the booth, sighing and wiping her eyes, he couldn’t help leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. 

 

“What was that for?” she asked, blushing lightly and pressing her fingers to the spot where his lips had been. 

 

“Couldn’t resist.” He shrugged. “You’re adorable when you laugh.”

 

The blush deepened and she looked away, biting her lip. “Have you tried these little raviolis?” she asked, flustered but smiling. “They’re amazing.”

 

He shook his head and she speared one on the end of her fork, offering it to him. He caught the pasta in his teeth, pulled it neatly off the tines, and, “Oh my God,” he groaned. “That  _ is _ amazing.”

 

“I know. Your Toni is a genius.”

 

“There are a few of those in this restaurant tonight,” he grinned, tapping an ornate skeleton key inked above her left knee. “So what was your first tattoo, if not a trendy piece with an unfortunate name?”

 

“A tramp stamp. You can say it.”

 

“No, I really can’t,” he laughed. “If having tattoos on your back makes you a tramp, then buy me a feather boa and drive me to Reno. I’m in no position to throw slurs around.”

 

Betty chuckled, looking at him with new curiosity. “Touche, Mr Jones. I didn’t know you had tattoos?”

 

“About half a dozen, I’d say.” He rolled up his shirt cuff to show her the bottom of his sleeve - a mermaid rising out of a stormy ocean. 

 

“Really,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose and leaning forward for a closer look. “I’d love to see them.”

 

“Well this is hardly the place, but if you insist …” he said, moving his hands as though to unbutton his shirt. She grabbed his wrists, smiling wickedly. 

 

He noticed the way her eyes darkened, trailing down the little bit of his chest that was already exposed. “Save it for somewhere private, Mr Jones.”

 

“Some of them  _ are _ very private.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

 

“Take me home tonight and you can see whatever you want.” She eyed him suggestively and nudged a plate of French cheeses towards him. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”

 

Clearing his throat, he loosened his collar and obediently smeared a baguette with some warm brie. “What about you?” he asked, his voice half an octave too high.  “You never did tell me what your first was.”

 

“Well buckle up, my friend,” she said, grinning at his discomfit and sitting back. “That’s a hell of a story.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Of everything Jughead could have imagined Betty would say,  _ “I kind of ran with a gang in high school,” _ was not quite at the top of the list. 

 

_ “My mother was a control freak and she wanted me to be perfect.” _

 

Sure.

 

_ “My sister got pregnant during senior year and ran away to join a commune-slash-farm-alias-cult, where she still lives. She’s cuckoo-bananas, but we’re super close. My brother’s in the FBI so I only see him at Christmas.” _

 

Believable.

 

“ _ My dad was the epitome of Mike’s Dad from Stranger Things, except more spineless and better with a crescent wrench. _ ”

 

A common tale.

 

_ “My best friend Kevin started dating a gang member during senior year. We all got to be friends, and I was desperate for a chance to break out of the bandbox my mother kept me in. So, I convinced their tattoo artist to teach me how to use his machines, and completely bastardized the years of genteel art lessons Mom made me take. Practiced on new recruits until I finally found an artist who was willing to take me as an apprentice, and the rest is history.” _

 

Freeze frame. Rewind. 

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

She laughed and popped an overstuffed cherry tomato into her mouth. “Look, it took me like seven years of therapy to work out the whys and wherefores of what exactly I was thinking when I tried to join a gang. I haven’t always been able to laugh about it, let alone joke about it. Mentally, it was a rough time for me, and the tl;dr, as the kids would say, is that I had a hard time reconciling the Betty my mother wanted to be, and the Betty who had actual human emotions and occasional rebellious moments. I figured if I had to choose between being perfect and being bad, I’d rather be bad.”

 

“But you were never actually in the gang?” Not that it mattered, since she clearly wasn’t in it anymore, but damn if he didn’t want the whole story.

 

“No. Most of the members were our age, and we spent a lot of time with them, that’s all. Joining did cross my mind, but the female initiation was not something I could stomach.”

 

He didn’t ask. 

 

“Anyway, my school counsellor got me into therapy, I learned to be myself without labels, and here we are.” She gestured laughingly at herself. “Both naughty and nice, and mostly pretty happy about it.”

 

Well, that was fair enough. His own story wasn’t actually much different from hers, but the teasing twinkle in her eye still had a seductive edge to it, so he decided to forgo any more family revelations for the moment. 

 

“Not going to run screaming from the place, Mr Jones?” she asked demurely, catching her straw with her tongue and drawing it slowly into her mouth. 

 

It took him a little more than a second to drag his gaze from her lips to her eyes. “Not unless I take you with me,” he said roughly. 

 

“Oh good,” she quipped. “I’d hate to have to follow you awkwardly in my car, trying to convince you to let me give you a ride home so you don’t ruin your shoes.”

 

Rolling his eyes, he took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly, smiling against her mouth. “I can’t decide if you’re way too cool for me, or you’re a complete nerd,” he said. 

 

“Complete nerd, since before nerds were cool,” she breathed, leaning in again.

 

“What about the tattoo that goes with the tale?” he asked, trailing one finger softly up a vine on her thigh. “Where’s that hiding?”

 

“It’s a snake,” she whispered, flicking her tongue against his ear on the ‘s’. “And you’ll see it later.”

  
  
  
  


Even in heels, she was smaller than him; pressed against the back of his building’s elevator, he could see over her shoulder at their reflection in the door. Her fingers were clasped in his, holding his hands against the wall; her breasts pillowed against his chest; her breath hot on his skin where she trailed greedy kisses down his neck.

 

They stumbled out of the elevator when it reached the top floor, slamming into his front door in a tangle of bodies. One hand fisted in her hair, the other arm looped roughly around her waist, he slapped his jacket against the doorknob, hoping the electronic key in his pocket was near enough the sensor. 

 

It was, and they tumbled through the door together, crashing into a small table before he fumbled for a light switch and pushed Betty against the wall, sliding his hand down her thigh and dragging her leg up around his waist. Her skirt had no give and he could feel it riding up, bunching around her hips. He picked her up easily and carried her into the dark living room, tossing her onto the sofa and letting her pull him down on top of her. 

 

She kissed the same way she debated - and he’d never been in a debate he’d enjoyed as much. She was soft and sweet, but passion coursed through her like fire, and every brush of her lips felt like the winning argument. He’d never thought of kisses as ‘intelligent’ before, but he was starting to think he’d happily rearrange his entire world view to explain what he thought of Betty Cooper. 

 

Her famously steady hands shook just a little, skating over his arms and back, combing through his hair, slowly inching his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers. 

 

He was glad he wasn’t the only one affected by the evening’s turn. 

 

“Take it off, Jughead. Please,” she murmured, toying with the buttons. 

 

He didn’t want to hurry, at least not the first time, but God help him, he  _ did _ want  _ her _ . Her bare thighs were wrapped around his hips and he could feel the heat of her pressed against him. He wanted more: he wanted to feel the silk of her blouse bunching in his hands, her skin tightening under his fingers, her legs parting at his touch. He wanted - 

 

“Jug?”

 

“Yes, baby,” he whispered, kissing her fiercely. “Anything you want.”

 

“I want to see you.”

  
  
  
  
  


God, did she want to see him.  She wanted to know him, in every possible way. He was too good to be true - with their easy conversation at dinner, the way she felt like she’d known him for years, his charm, his casual confidence, his raw sex appeal - but she wasn’t one to look sideways at a gift. If he  _ was _ too good to be true, if it all turned out to be a mistake waiting to happen, then she was damn well going to enjoy watching the disaster unfold. 

 

Literally. 

 

He shifted his weight to his knees, looming over her on the sofa, and pulled his shirt over his head in a slow, smooth movement that made her want to chase the hem with her tongue as inch by tempting inch of his sculpted torso was exposed. 

 

A soft breath escaped her and she reached out to skim her fingers over his abs; he caught her wrist in his hand and dragged her up, crushing her against his chest and covering her mouth with his, swallowing her gasp and teasing her into a heady free-fall with soft nips and deadly flicks of his tongue. 

 

He plucked at her blouse, twisting the fabric around his finger, and she moaned quietly, her fractured ‘yes’ lost between them at his wordless question. Anticipation tingled through her as he shifted her, lifting her up to her knees. 

 

“Don’t move,” he teased, leaning down and raising her blouse just enough to press his lips to the skin below her belly button. “Is this okay?”

 

_ God yes, yes  _ \- “Yes.”

 

He smoothed his hands up her waist, slowly, slowly, brushing her blouse out of the way and following the whispering silk with the promise of  _ more _ on the tip of his tongue. It bunched under her breasts and she arched her back; offering what - permission, suggestion - she didn’t know. His thumb slipped onto the lace of her bra; he locked eyes with her, sitting up until their noses almost touched, and slid his hands deftly over her chest to her shoulders, dragging the blouse along as he raised her hands over her head. 

 

It landed with a swish somewhere behind them and Jughead pulled her in again, dipping his head to capture her open mouth in a deep, slow kiss, and holding her closer and closer until she couldn’t tell whose heartbeat was whose. 

  
  
  
  
  


The feeling of her naked skin against his put an end to any reservations he had about rushing things. Her body was beautiful - pure sin wrapped in soft lace; the most delicate champagne-coloured bra he’d ever seen, over silky pale skin decorated like an ancient temple with birds and flowers, words he couldn’t read in the dark, clocks, keys, gears, jewels - and there, between her breasts and half-hidden under the deep plunge of her bra, a tiny snake slithering toward her throat. 

 

“Is that it?” he whispered, tracing it with his finger.

 

She shivered and nodded. “The ink that started it all. It hadn’t even healed before I was itching for another one.”

 

“Is it the gang symbol? You said they were called the Serpents.”

 

“No, it’s just a snake. Theirs is shaped like an ‘S’ and it’s frankly kind of tacky.”

 

“Well this,” he murmured, trailing his lips down her chest and flicking his tongue over the snake, “is anything,” a soft kiss, the slow slide of his hands down her back, “but tacky.” 

 

She threaded her fingers through his hair and leaned back, humming her approval as he laved hot kisses over the swell of her breasts, tracing the edge of her bra, dragging his teeth over a juicy-looking cherry peeking out from under the wire, sliding the straps off her shoulders and soothing the faint red marks left behind with his tongue. 

 

Somewhere above him, he could hear her soft, panting breaths. Her hands tightened in his hair whenever he kissed a particularly sensitive spot, sending chills down his spine. 

 

As if being beautiful, intelligent, and talented wasn’t enough, she was the most sensual creature he’d ever had the privilege to hold in his arms and, fuck, he was so gone for her. She encouraged him with soft touches and quiet moans, offered him her body with more trust than he felt he deserved. Her knee was wedged lightly between his thighs as they knelt on the couch, and he was embarrassingly close to grinding against her hips to relieve some of the desperate ache that he felt. 

 

“Tell me to stop, Betty.” His lips moved to her neck, nipping and sucking, one hand at her throat and the other tracing the zipper on her skirt. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”

 

“God no,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

 

He inched the zipper down, following the curve of her body and slipping his hands under the soft leather as it loosened. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” she sighed softly, pressing her cheek against his, her eyelashes fluttering against his temple, her breath sending a ghostly kiss across his skin. “So sure.”

  
  
  
  


She’d never been more sure of anything in her life. The first glimpse of his body had been tantalizing; his reaction to his first glimpse of  _ her  _ body had her unconsciously straddling his thigh in a needy attempt to get closer to him.

 

He looked at her like she was something precious to be worshipped. He liked her art, that much was obvious, and she couldn’t hold it against him. She liked his, too. But he looked past that, past the ink, past the career, and saw  _ her _ . It made her feel naked in a way she never had before, and she relished it.

 

“My God, Betty,” he whispered, squeezing roughly and lifting her off the sofa so her skirt could drop to her knees. She kicked it off, sending her shoes clattering to the floor along with it. “You’re beautiful.”

 

“So are you.” She could feel the blush heating up her cheeks, but she leaned back so he could see her face. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing, Jug.”

 

She’d gone in with an open mind, as promised. Physical attraction had played a larger part in her decision making than she normally permitted, but instinct trumped everything and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wanted to see where this could go. She owed it to herself to find out. 

 

No guts, no glory. 

 

He looked absolutely wrecked, his hair sticking up in all directions, lips swollen and smeared in gloss, eyes dark and hazy. “Neither do I,” he said, his voice low and raspy. “There’s so much I want to know about you.”

 

“Me too.” She reached for him, meeting him in a softer, sweeter kiss. “I know enough for tonight, though.”

 

It was an invitation, and he took it.

 

“Come with me,” he said, climbing off the couch and pulling her up with him. “My bed is a lot more comfortable than this.”

 

“Lead the way.” He stepped aside to let her pass, his eyes trailing after her. As she moved through a shaft of light filtering in through the window, a sharp inhale of surprise escaped him and she knew he’d seen through the flimsy excuse for lingerie she’d chosen. “You alright?”

 

He cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on her breasts. “Uh,” he coughed. “Not just tattoos, then?”

 

“Oh no,” she said coyly. “Not at all.”  She brushed by him, unhooking her bra as she walked down the hall he indicated, holding it out and letting it drop unceremoniously to the ground beside her. 

  
  
  
  


There was a very strong possibility that this woman was going to kill him.

 

How he’d missed the piercings when he was exploring was beyond him, but now that he knew the little bars were there, he couldn’t wait to get his mouth on them. He tripped after her, barely watching where he was going as she carelessly stripped, her hips swaying like a mesmerist’s charm. 

 

She paused in his bedroom door and turned, her arms crossed prettily over her chest, and leaned against the wall, all long legs and sexy silhouette. “You’re staring again, Jack,” she teased. “Like what you see?”

 

He couldn’t resist pressing against her, bracing his forearms on the wall either side of her head. “You know I do, Miss Cooper,” he whispered in her ear. “I think you’re tempting me on purpose.”

 

“What are you going to do about it?” She blinked up at him, biting her lip and sliding her leg around his, pulling him closer. Her eyes widened and then fluttered shut and he knew she could feel how impossibly hard he was for her. 

 

“You like that?” He nuzzled his cheek into her neck, letting his stubble graze the sensitive skin. “Tell me.”

 

He rocked against her and she moaned, hiking her leg up and angling her hips towards him. “I have a piercing there, too,” she whimpered. “That feels so good.”

 

‘Good’ would do, for a start.

  
  
  
  
  
  


‘Good’ was the understatement of the century. It didn’t describe his low growl reverberating over her skin, or the sudden slide of his hands down her thighs. It sure as hell didn’t describe the electricity that flooded her body when he lifted her up and pressed what felt like throbbing steel against her sex.  

 

“Jughead,” she gasped, wrapping her arms and legs around him and rolling her hips. “Take me to bed, please.”

 

“What’s the rush?” he murmured, dragging his tongue up the side of her neck. “I like you right here.”

 

She liked it, too, but- “I want your hands on me,” she whispered. “Touch me.”

 

His grip on her thighs tightened and he caught her lip in his teeth, just hard enough to make her sigh. “God, you sound like heaven.” He pressed her harder against the wall, his chest rubbing deliciously against her breasts. “And you’re so soft,” he breathed, running his lips slowly up her jaw to her ear. “Say it again. Tell me you want me.”

 

A shiver snaked its way down her spine, curling low in her belly and sending goosebumps exploding over her skin. “I want you.” She pressed her nose against his cheek and brushed her lips over his. “I want all of you.”

 

He kissed her, fast and rough, his tongue darting into her mouth, his lips dragging against hers, a muffled moan escaping him as she pulled him closer and tilted her head, kissing him back like an over-eager teenager in the backseat of her first car. It was messy and entirely without technique, laced with a desperation she’d never felt before. He turned away from the wall, carrying her the three steps to the bed, and tumbled down on top of her, tearing himself away and licking a hot, biting trail down her throat to her chest. 

 

“These are fucking gorgeous,” he said, cupping her breasts in his hands and burying his face between them. “Are the piercings healed?”

 

With his knees bracketing her hips and her body trapped under his, she would have said ‘yes’ even if they were brand new. Fortunately, that particular moment of insanity had predated most of her twenties, so when his lips closed eagerly around one pebbled nipple all she felt was pleasure, the hot caress of his tongue sending sparks of need shooting straight to her core. She squirmed, trying uselessly to press against his erection, and whined when he grinned with her barbell between his teeth and moved his hips up and away from her. 

 

“Tease,” she hissed, raking her nails down his back and winding her fingers through his belt loops. 

 

“Patience,” he chuckled, twisting both bars carefully. “I’m trying to take my time with you, and you’re making it very … difficult.”

  
  
  
  
  


At her frustrated groan, he grinned and caved, laying against her and kissing her fiercely. “Not in the mood to take it slow?”

 

“You can take it as slow as you like, but you feel so good,” she whispered. “Stay where I can touch you.”

 

_ I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.  _ “You overestimate my self-control.” He nipped at her ear lobe and slid his hand down her side to grip her hip. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this.” His fingers slid under the flimsy lace of her panties and she keened, curling one leg around his thigh. 

 

“Neither have I,” she gasped. “I think this is already the best sex I’ve ever had.”

 

He knew exactly what she meant - that bone-deep contentment, that sense of being with the right person and having every touch land exactly where it’s supposed to, the need to taste, to learn, to please … 

 

He pressed a kiss to the little snake, another to her navel, a third to a feather on her hip.“Let's see if we can make it better.”

  
  
  
  


She tasted fucking  _ amazing _ , he smugly informed his earlier self, draping her silky thighs over his shoulders and lashing his tongue up her slit, then sliding his hands under her ass to haul her closer. She collapsed against a pile of pillows, burrowing her hands into his hair and rocking her hips in time with his long, slow licks. He loved the way she pulled his hair, the way her back arched off the bed every time he flicked the little diamond that hovered over her clit, the way she sighed his name, “Oh, _ God _ , Jughead,” when he slipped a curious finger into her dripping center, and then the way she cried it when he added a second and rubbed them gently together. 

 

“Oh, God,” she moaned, “God, I’m going to come. Please don’t stop. Just like that,  _ please _ .”

 

He hummed, ignoring the ache in his jaw and dragging his tongue over her in the soft little circles that seemed to drive her crazy. He groped blindly with his free hand, reaching for her breasts, rolling her nipples and twisting the bars; first one, then the other until she started grinding against him, faster and faster. “Yes,” she hissed, planting her feet on the bed and holding him in place with a painful grip of his hair. “Fuck me, Jug, don’t stop. God, don’t stop!”

 

God, he never wanted to stop. He could die happy like this: achingly hard and dripping with his own desire, this living goddess moaning his name, her taste on his tongue. She came with a stuttered string of breathless curses, shaking bonelessly and drowning him in a sweet, salty flood of pleasure, and a muffled sob when he licked one time too many.  

 

“Sorry,” he whispered, pressing a repentant kiss to a tiny heart nestled in the crease of her thigh. He crawled onto the bed and collapsed beside her, propped up on his side with his leg slotted between hers.

 

She smiled up at him with slightly unfocused eyes and pulled him down for a slow, messy kiss. “Never apologize,” she murmured, her tongue chasing his between words. “That was fantastic.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Mhm.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed contentedly. “Just give me a minute and I’ll return the favour.”

 

Ignoring the persistent need in his own body, he leaned over and kissed her temple, resting his head on one hand and idly playing with her hair.  “I never do this.”

 

Shifting on the bed so she could tuck herself under him, she asked drowsily, “Do what?” 

 

“Kiss on the first date.” He said it teasingly but she opened her eyes in surprise, like she heard the hint of truth in it. She raised an eyebrow and he continued. “I’m more of a relationship guy than a sex guy, and even those have been few and far between.”

 

“How few?” she asked, curiosity warring with concern in her eyes. He could see that she didn’t want to pry and he liked her all the more for it. 

 

“Few,” he repeated, grinning and bumping his forehead against hers playfully. “It doesn’t matter, does it? They were people I knew, and loved, and came to want.”

 

Betty returned the smile and wrapped her arm around his waist. “It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t do jealousy, remember?” 

 

“One of your many,  _ many _ fine qualities.” He stroked a hand boldly from her breast to her hip, settling it on her ass and squeezing. She was sated, for the moment, but he was definitely not. 

 

She looked up at him with a sultry smile, and the sleepy haze faded from her eyes. “Do you want me, Jughead?”

 

“Yes.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


His body, like hers, was covered in ink. His tattoos, unlike hers, were large and distinct; one piece here, another there, each in its own style and yet still complimentary of the others. 

 

The mermaid on his arm, a quill in a bottle of ink tickling his side, a string of Latin words following the curve of his hip down below his waistband - she had no idea what it said but she really wanted to taste it. 

 

He looked extremely lickable. 

 

Pulling the rest of his clothes off and tossing them to the floor, she crawled over him, letting her breasts drag against his thighs, his hips, his chest. When she leaned over him and her stomach rested against his erection for the first time, he let out a low growl and arched his back, panting for breath. “Fuck, Betty,” he hissed. “That feels unreal.”

 

She caught his words in a filthy kiss, writhing over him, and shaking her hair out of its dishevelled bun so he could tangle his fingers in her curls. 

 

“Please,” he murmured, pressing his thigh against her heat and sucking softly on her earlobe. 

 

She mewled and pressed back. “Condom?” she whispered, glancing around for a likely drawer. 

 

He reached for a small wooden box on the headboard and pulled a strip of foil packets out, tearing one off and handing it to her. 

 

“We probably should have done this part earlier,” she muttered, opening the packet and rolling the condom onto his cock. “I’m clean and I’m on the pill, too. We’re probably good, but I’d keep a baby if the unlikely should occur. K?”

 

“Your body, your choice,” he gritted out, fighting to keep still as she caressed him, and thanking God for the thin barrier the latex provided. “Fuck, that shouldn’t feel so good.”

 

Grinning wickedly, she wrapped her hand more firmly around his base and tugged gently, covering him with her other hand and stroking. “What?” she asked innocently. “It’s just safe sex.”

 

“Oh, God.” He thrust his hips up into her hand and swore, loudly. “I’m clean, too,” he gasped, “and I can think of worse things than having a kid as cool as you.”

 

Blushing, she leaned down to kiss him again. “That’s very sweet, but we should be fine. My cousin just told me to put my cards on the table before we fucked. Her words.”

 

“Smart woman,” he groaned, a light sweat breaking out on his chest as Betty shifted and settled his cock between her thighs. “God, you’re so wet.”

 

“Mhm. All you.” Rocking her hips until his tip pressed inside her, she stilled and reached for his hands, tangling their fingers together. “Okay?”

 

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip. “You feel so damn good. Fuck me, baby.”

 

Maybe it was a little unfair to take advantage of the fact that she’d already come, and he was clearly spiralling towards desperation, but she couldn’t resist. “What’s the magic word?” she teased, taking a bit more of him and then all but pulling herself away. 

 

He glared at her, every tendon in his neck pulsing. “You’re going to pay for that someday.”

 

“I hope that’s a promise,” she said, shivering at the dark look that settled in his eyes. 

 

A feral grin flashed across his face and he nudged against her. “I’m a man of my word.” His voice dropped to a caressing whisper; “Now come on, Betts.  _ Please _ fuck me,” and she knew instantly that her control was a complete illusion. 

  
  
  
  
  


He’d take over if she wanted him to, but what better way to learn what someone likes than to watch her take it?

 

That said, he’d never seen anything in his life as sexy as Betty straddling him, guiding his hands over her breasts, confidence and sensuality pouring from her as she sank down on him. 

 

Never mind how it felt. “Holy shit,” he moaned, prying his hands free and squeezing her hips, gasping at the hot pulse of her body around him. “Holy shit, Betty.”

 

She whimpered, eyes closed, head thrown back, stroking her hands over his chest. He held on for dear life, watching her move over him, curl her hips and grind her clit against his abs, squeeze his cock in a brutal grip every time she leaned back. God, she was sex personified - every movement, every line of her body, every soft gasp from her lips calculated to destroy him. 

 

He couldn’t take just lying there. He needed to feel all of her. She squealed in surprise when he sat up, wrapping one arm around her. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, resting his hand on her chest, almost at her throat. “Show me how you like it.”

 

She liked it slow, and deep. She liked to hold his jaw in one hand and his hair in the other, panting against his mouth, stealing sloppy kisses between smooth curls of her hips. She really liked when he turned the tables on her, gripping her hair and yanking her head back, biting her throat and then flicking his tongue over her ear; and she positively purred when he spoke. “God, you feel so good on my cock, baby. So fucking tight. You’re gonna make me come like this.”

 

“Yes,” she panted. “Please. I want you to.”

 

He could feel his orgasm building, felt an almost possessive thrill at the thought of coming inside her, but she was so close. He was sure of it. “You first. What do you need?”

 

“Fuck me harder,” she gasped, pressing harder against him. “I’m almost there, Jug. Fuck me.”

 

He let her set the pace, thrusting deep into her between the slow drags of that little diamond against his base. “God, yes,” she hissed, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes shut in concentration. “God that’s so good. Don’t stop.” 

 

(He’d once witnessed a graphic and angry conversation on that very topic between a sympathetic Toni and a very wine-drunk Veronica, so he knew better than to try something different.)

 

“Oh fuck,” she gasped, her body loosening like she wasn’t in control anymore, her movements getting wild and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck … _ ”

 

He watched her ride it out, sweating and crying his name and a few other choice expletives, her nails digging into his shoulders and her whole body shaking against his, and fuck if that wasn’t going to be the last thing he thought of before he died.

 

“That feels amazing,” she panted. “I’m still coming. Come with me, Jug … show me how you like it.”

  
  
  
  
  


They fell into a messy tangle on the bed, her half on her side with her leg over his shoulder; him on his knees with one hand on her breast, and furious, pounding heat between them as he fucked her through her orgasm, hard and fast, coming deep inside her with a low, strangled groan. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he hissed, shuddering against her with every teasing squeeze of her muscles. “Fuck, you’re amazing.” 

 

After several long, blissful minutes draped over her, enjoying the slow pulse of her aftershocks, he pulled out with a wince and collapsed on the bed beside her. “Oh my God,” he whispered, holding her face in his hands and pressing his nose against hers.

 

She nodded lazily, euphoria flooding her body and her senses, and wound her arms around his neck, tossing her leg over his hip. “I’ve never come like that,” she said. “You must be some kind of sex god.”

 

He laughed, breathless, and shoved his sweaty hair off his forehead. “You did all the work, and I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

 

Something sparked in her chest at that, something soft and instinctual. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” she said lightly, snuggling against him. 

 

He kissed her, licking into her mouth, stroking his hand along her side, brushing against her breast, over her ass, tracing the curve of her hip until she mewled and arched against him. “You’re something else, Betty Cooper,” he said. “I could fall for you.”

 

“I think I want you to.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again :) Sorry for the delay. Betty has a certain piercing in this story that I've always wanted to get, and about five minutes after she first mentions it, I decided ... to hell with it ... and made an appointment.  
> Naturally, I had to wait for it to heal before I could try it out and write about it with any degree of confidence. 
> 
> On that note, thank you to the ladies in the kinky f8cks discord for their honest assessment of nipple piercings, which I do not have, although I think they're super hot.
> 
> Jughead quotes Emily Gilmore from Gilmore Girls in this chapter. Veronica totally made him watch it in high school. He did not like the epilogue.
> 
> The author would like to formally register her annoyance that HTML is the default page for editing work in ao3. I do NOT want extra spaces around all of my italics, thank you very much

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is nothing but fluffy flirting and smutty smut. That's it. The plot (if you can call it that) is like the flour in a rum cake - just there to hold it all together. It is self-indulgent trash, because I love tattoos (and check out my tumblr for the inked-up GORGEOUS Jughead that Jandy made me) and I'm a little in love with Ryan Ashley (Ink Master winner, season 8). 
> 
> Yay for fulfilling our own fantasies with fic! If you like it, leave me some love and I'll write some more :)


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